


If, When Morning Comes

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Clarke spend an eventful night together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If, When Morning Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Trying not to get my hopes up about tonight's episode but I can't help it- I'm excited! I really enjoyed writing this one, so I hope you enjoy reading it!

“Alright,” Bellamy mutters to himself, throwing the covers back and sitting up. “Enough is enough.”

As he roots around on his floor in the dark for some sweatpants and a shirt to pull on, he hears the Friends theme song start up for what must be the fifth time in two hours. He grumbles curses under his breath and shoves his feet into the orthopedic slippers Octavia got him as a joke for his last birthday. Joke’s on her, they’re really comfortable.

The laugh track wafts up through his floorboards as he stomps across the apartment, hoping his downstairs neighbor can hear him coming.

He doesn’t know her well; he technically rents the top floor of her house but it has its own exterior entrance and she seems a little prickly, so they haven’t interacted much. She never overfills the trash bins, she keeps a neat little garden and the lawn well-trimmed, she never blocks his car in the driveway, and until tonight, she’s never been intrusive or obnoxious about her noise levels. But it’s three in the morning and he can’t sleep with the sound of her television blaring beneath him, so he’s not in the most gracious of moods.

He pounds on her door but the noise is coming from the other side of the house and as loud as she’s got the sound cranked up, she can’t hear him knock. So he does the only thing his weary, aggravated mind can think of to do: he slips behind the hedges and slips through the narrow space around the corner of the house until he comes to a window softly lit with the blueish glow of a screen in the dark. For lack of any better ideas, he knocks.

He’s not prepared for the _scream_ she emits, or for the blinds to be yanked up and a flashlight immediately shone in his eyes. He flinches back into the bushes, the sharp edges of the leaves pricking him in about a million places on his back and arms.

“Ouch! Dammit.”

“Bellamy?” She lowers the flashlight but he can’t see her expression because on top of being awake and marked with fresh stab wounds from her stupid pointy bushes, he’s now _blind_. It’s really not his night. “What the hell are you doing outside my window?”

“You didn’t answer your door.”

“Come around, I’ll let you in.”

By the time he dislodges himself from the shrubbery and circles back around to her front door, she’s got it open and is waiting just across the threshold with a blanket wrapped around her.

“Sorry,” she says, cringing as he twists to try to see nature’s shrapnel still poking into his skin through his threadbare t-shirt. “I couldn’t hear you over my show.”

“Yeah, and I couldn’t sleep for the same reason,” he snaps. “I was just trying to ask you to turn it down, and look what happens.”

She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Do you want some help with that?”

He cranes his neck to check his back again, but with even that simple motion he can feel that there are some he can’t reach.

“It’s the least I can do,” she says, and she still hasn’t laughed at him even though she clearly wants to.

“That, and turning down the volume.”

“That's a given,” she smiles, pulling him inside and locking– and double-deadbolting– the door behind him. He’s never been inside her part of the house before but it appears to be laid out similarly to his, except her clutter is more spare mannequin parts and art supplies than the books and papers that sit around on all of his surfaces. “Follow me, I’ll grab some antiseptic.”

“You really think that’s necessary?” He asks, dodging what looks like a model of a human heart as he follows her toward the hall bathroom.

It takes genuine effort not to step or comment on her blanket, which at first glance seemed to have a floral pattern but upon closer inspection contains hidden BB-8s and Storm Troopers. The more questions she raises, the more his anger starts to wane.

“Which one of us went to medical school?”

“Process of elimination says it was probably you.”

“Good guess.” She tosses him a smile over her shoulder, pulling a first aid kit from her bathroom cabinet and leading him back to the living room. “Better safe than sorry, you know? It would suck to get an infection and then have to tell people you’re sick because you were hiding in your neighbor’s bushes.”

“I wasn’t hiding. What kind of intruder would knock?”

“The kind that wants their victim to know they’re about to be murdered,” she suggests. He’s about to say something in response but then she flips the light switch and when he catches sight of her walls, he loses track of any words he might have been preparing.

“Holy–”

“What?” She follows his line of sight to the most exposed wall, where she’s pushed furniture aside and he can see she’s painted an intricate mural. Giant, near the ceiling, are planets and stars and space stations, while a landscape of forests and mountains line the floor. Here and there he can make out a shadowy figure of an animal, or glowing blue butterflies. It’s detailed and a little haunting and he can’t look away. “Oh. That.”

At her dismissive tone, he cuts his eyes to her.

“You did that?”

“In my free time,” she shrugs and pats the footstool in front of where she’s seated on the couch. “Take a seat.”

“You’re really good.”

“Thanks. Turn around and take your shirt off.” Her tone is all professionalism, but her cheeks pink a little. He tries not to smirk– she did refrain from laughing at him, after all– and does as she says. It’s likely different for her to do this sort of thing in her living room in the wee hours of the morning instead of in an examination room. That’s probably why she’s blushing.

Well, he knows what he looks like shirtless. There might be more than one reason.

She helps him gently peel the back of his shirt from his skin and he winces as the last of the needles pull from his skin. Her touch is feather-light on his back, quickly inspecting the scratches before beginning to apply the antiseptic.

“So, is there a reason you’re up watching Friends in the middle of the night?”

“Do you normally have to justify your post-midnight binges?”

“Touche.”

She’s quiet for a moment and he casts around for another topic of conversation so he won’t have to think about how soft her fingers are. She speaks before he can find one.

“I actually do have a reason this time.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s just– It’s a little embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than scaring my neighbor into thinking I’m someone who wants to taunt them and wear their skin?”

“Definitely not,” she laughs, a warm puff of air landing against his skin. “I actually– I had today and tomorrow off from the hospital. I spent most of the afternoon watching Criminal Minds, and it kind of got to me. As soon as it got dark I realized my mistake, but every time I tried to fall asleep I would swear I could hear someone in my kitchen or in my closet or– I just got creeped out that some psycho killer was about to come after me. So I put on something a little more lighthearted to lull me to sleep, except it didn’t really work–”

“And then some nut job knocks on your window at three a.m. and you completely lose it–”

“Hey.” She flicks him in the back of the head. “Anyone would have been a little startled.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone in the state heard you shriek.”

“Yet no one came running to my defense. That stings.”

“They probably think you can handle yourself,” he offers. “They’d be wrong–”

“Excuse you?”

“Shining a flashlight into my face isn’t the offensive move I would have gone with.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? It temporarily disabled you. And now I’m helping the scary intruder with the scary grandpa shoes–”

“They’re not grandpa shoes.”

“–like the good Samaritan I am, and instead of a thank you I’m getting made fun of. In my own home, no less!”

“Thank you,” Bellamy says, grinning at her over his shoulder before realizing that her hands are still, resting lightly on his back. She appears to notice at the same moment he does and clears her throat, dropping them awkwardly to her lap.

“You should be good. No infections on my watch.”

“My hero.”

He picks his shirt up from the floor and swivels to face her. She’s still leaning forward and she’s suddenly very close, all wide eyes and messy blonde braid. She has a beauty mark he’s never noticed before just above her lip. When he drops his eyes to his hands to pluck the needles one by one from his shirt, he deliberately bypasses the cleavage he’s pretty sure is on display. He’s done enough damage for one night. No need to be a jerk after she helped him.

“You gonna be okay?” He asks, looking up at her through his lashes. “Alone, I mean. Or is the Friends marathon an all-night kind of thing?”

“Oh, I’m definitely not going to be able to sleep after that scare.” She’s smiling even as she says this, and he can’t tell whether she’s kidding.

“Seriously? Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sleep is overrated.”

“Does it make you feel better to know I’m just upstairs? I promise I’d come running if I heard you scream. And if Monica’s shrill voice gets through your ceiling, there’s no chance I wouldn’t hear you getting crazy murdered.”

“As long as you promise never to knock on my window again.” She grabs a marker from between the couch cushions– seriously, he thinks, how did she know that was in there?– and takes his hand, scribbling a number on it. “This is in case I don’t answer the door. Use it wisely.”

“I’m totally going to send you those science cat memes.”

“That is what I meant by wisely.” She smirks and it’s impossible that she’s really this lovely at three in the morning after he’s scared the shit out of her.

“Cool,” he says, standing and pulling his shirt back on. “Then, uh– thanks and sorry and… keep it down.”

She laughs and unlocks the door for him, her blanket soft as he brushes past her.

“Get some sleep, Bellamy. And– don’t be a stranger. And don’t lurk outside any windows in the dark.”

“No promises.”

His exhaustion drags his tread as he climbs his stairs and lets himself into his apartment. He’d planned for it to be a quick trip, so he’d left his door cracked. It’s fallen open wider in his absence. He shakes his head at his stupidity and feels compelled to check every hiding place he can think of before locking the door, undressing, and climbing back into bed. Clarke’s face swims in his mind when he closes his eyes and he wonders how soon he’ll find an excuse to use her number.

He’s almost asleep when he’s awoken by a crash somewhere inside his apartment.

After the night he’s had he bolts upright, springing out of bed and barreling into his hallway without thinking of the consequences. The apartment is still, ostensibly empty except for him. He locates the source of the crash, a framed picture of Octavia at her college graduation, lying in shattered glass on the floor.

He’s bending to pick it up when there’s a noise behind him.

“Who’s there?” He demands, whirling around only to find– nothing. Which is weird, because that’s definitely where the noise came from. He’s taking a tentative step in that general direction when he hears the noise again. He squints through the darkness just in time to see something hurtling at his face.

An involuntary shout escapes his lips and he ducks, throwing his hands up to protect his head.

There’s a bird trapped in his apartment, he realizes with a mix of relief and irritation.

He’s in the middle of turning on the lights when there’s a loud banging on his door. When he yanks it open, he finds Clarke standing there, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, frying pan clenched tightly in her fist. Her eyes flicker to his bare chest and then lower, before returning to his face. She looks both adorable and fierce, ready to take someone _down_.

“Hey there, Rapunzel. I thought you were a giant bird,” he admits, stepping aside to let her in.

“I thought you were being serial killed. Why would I be a bird?”

“Because there’s one wreaking havoc in my apartment.”

“And that’s the crash I heard?”

“Yep.” He glances at the skillet. “Did you immediately jump to defend me or did you at least wait until I shouted?”

“You said you’d come running for me,” she says, jutting her chin in determination. “It goes both ways. Besides, if you get murdered here, this apartment will be harder to rent out to someone else.”

“I’ll try to be murdered off the premises, then,” he snorts.

“Seems the least you could do,” she agrees. And then, “How did it get in?”

“I left my door open,” he confesses, sheepish. “But don’t worry– I already checked for serial killers. I didn’t think to check for birds.”

She just stares at him for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“You’re kind of a disaster when you’re running on no sleep, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, smiling despite himself. She didn’t say it meanly, didn’t say it like it’s a bad thing. She said it like it’s a fact, which– she’s not wrong. “Let’s blame it on my exhaustion."

“Don’t worry. It’s cute. How are your trapping skills?”

“Uh–” His brain struggles to set the beginning of that statement aside so he can answer the question. “A little rusty.”

“Mine too.” She studies him, amusement lingering in the quirk of her lips and the glint in her eye. “I’m not going to be much help here. And a professional probably won’t be able to come out until morning.”

“If I shut my bedroom door, I might be able to get some sleep,” he sighs. “Assuming it doesn’t wreck anything else.”

“You sure?” Clarke asks. He frowns.

“You see another option, now’s the time to mention it.”

“I have a couch,” she points out. “And a bird-free apartment.”

“And you are a good Samaritan.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Honestly? I’d probably sleep better knowing you were there.”

“First line of defense against any serial killers?”

“First victim,” she corrects him teasingly. “You’d slow them down enough to give me time to escape.”

“So it’s a win-win,” he grins. “Let me grab some clothes and I’ll be right down.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account,” she says, and though her tone is light the blush finally rises to her cheeks. He’s tempted to see how red he can make her, but at this point it’s nearly four thirty and he’s got work in the morning. And he’s starting to think he might get another chance to make her blush, sooner than he expected.

So instead of making a suggestive comment he snags his recently discarded clothing from the floor, along with his pillow, and follows Clarke back down the stairs. She locks them in once more and hovers awkwardly as he gets settled on the couch.

“You need anything?” She asks when he raises his eyebrows at her. “Blanket? Water? Glass of warm milk?”

“I’m fine,” he assures her, a faint smile on his face. “You don’t work tomorrow? Don’t need me gone at a specific time?”

“No, I was planning to sleep in.”

“Awesome. I might call in sick to work then.”

“There is a bird loose in your apartment,” she grants. “And your asshole neighbor made a bunch of noise and kept you up all night. I think you’ve earned a sick day.”

“My thoughts exactly.” She smiles softly and gives him a little wave as she backs toward her room. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

“Night. Sleep well.”

He lies awake for a few minutes, waiting for sleep to overtake him. By all accounts, it shouldn’t be elusive, yet some combination of the adrenaline from the bird attack and the knowledge that a door is all that separates him from Clarke, makes him restless.

“Bellamy?” Clarke keeps her voice low, like she thinks he can somehow sleep when she’s this close.

“Clarke?” He calls back, just as quiet. There’s no response, and he wonders if she didn’t hear. Wonders what she was going to say. And then she speaks again.

“Is my creepy mural bothering you?”

He dissolves into laughter.

“It is _now_ ,” he says, studying the two-headed deer that seems to be both staring at him and staring just off to his right.

“Sorry.” Her voice is a little bolder now, and he thinks he can hear a smile in her voice. “My art can be a little bit dark.”

“Don’t be sorry for that. It’s your art. And like I said before, you’re really talented.”

“It should have occurred to me I might need that room for overnight guests,” she muses. “But– thanks. Sometimes it feels a little too weird to show people. Too personal. All part of my tragic backstory.”

“You have one too?”

For a moment he thinks she isn’t going to answer. When she does, her voice is careful.

“My dad died when I was a freshman in college. My mom and I haven’t really lived in the same place for any extended period of time since it happened, and we’ve both moved on but– kind of in separate directions? So– family stuff, mostly.”

“You know, I kind of got that vibe from your mural. I guess it takes one to know one.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. Mine is mostly family stuff too.”

She’s silent, waiting and it strikes him that it’s both strange and easier to have this conversation in separate rooms, in the dark, in the middle of the night. He’s surprised at himself; he doesn’t usually talk about this sort of thing with anyone. It’s not obligation or reciprocation that makes him want to tell Clarke, it’s a feeling like she might get it. He doesn’t get that gut instinct often, so he doesn’t know what to do except roll with it.

“Growing up, my mom tended to blur the boundaries between her responsibilities and mine,” is what he finally comes up with. “I shouldered a lot of burden that shouldn’t fall on kids. But I’m good now. And so is my sister.”

She’s a healthy, semi well-adjusted adult with a good job and manageable debt. For so long, that’s all he wanted for Octavia. He doesn’t say this; Clarke probably doesn’t want to hear about Octavia as much as he wants to talk about Octavia. No one wants to hear about Octavia as much as he wants to talk about her.

“She’s the one who bought me the grandpa shoes,” is what he ends up saying. He’s gratified to hear Clarke chuckle.

“She likes to embarrass you.”

“As if I don’t do a good enough job on my own.” He suddenly finds that he’s grinning into the darkness and wonders if she can tell. “If I ever tell her about tonight, she’s never going to let me live it down.”

“She can join the club. I’m never letting you forget this.”

“Because we hang out so often.” The silence feels uncertain and regret swells within him.

“I thought we might start, after tonight.” She hasn’t grown quieter but her voice is somehow smaller than it was before. “Being in the trenches together is a bonding experience, Bellamy.”

“You and me against the birds.”

“And the serial killers,” she adds, more confident. The silence that falls now is pleasant but it doesn’t feel like the end of the conversation. Or perhaps that’s just because Bellamy doesn’t want it to be the end. The sun will rise before he knows it, but he’s not ready to let go and sleep yet.

“This isn’t working,” Clarke huffs, and he hears her comforter rustling.

“What isn’t?”

“I can’t get to sleep. Would it– If I put my headphones in– I think it might help if I turn Friends back on?”

“That worked so well the first time,” he teases. Before he can lose his nerve, he asks, “Mind if I join you? I can’t really sleep either.”

She only misses half a beat.

“Why not? Come on in.”

Her room is just as untidy as the rest of her apartment, clothes and medical journals strewn across the floor. She scoots toward the wall to make room next to her on the bed, laptop already open. He climbs up next to her carefully. This close, he knows what her arm feels like when it brushes against his and he can smell her shampoo as she spreads her Star Wars blanket across their laps. It’s information he never would have expected to have about Clarke Griffin, and he tucks the memory carefully away in his mind.

“Need me to start this episode over?” She asks, looking at him for the first time, and she’s _right there._

“Nah,” he says, leaning ever so slightly closer. “I think I can catch up.”

The next thing he’s aware of is sunlight streaming in through her still-open blinds.

He’s still on top of the covers, she’s still tucked beneath them with her laptop having fallen down between their knees. They’re barely touching, except for where her nose is pressed into his shoulder and her feet have burrowed underneath his ankles.

Part of him thinks he should move, thinks it should be weird that he’s practically cuddling with his neighbor, who was essentially a stranger to him until last night. Another, larger part of him wants to never move. That’s that part that wins out, in the end.

He does relocate Clarke’s computer to her bedside table, moving as little as possible so as not to wake her. When he rolls back toward her, she shifts slightly, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt, her hand warm and light on his chest. There’s no way he’s moving now.

The next time he wakes up, she’s gone. He’s disappointed until he hears a muffled clang, followed by Clarke hissing a few choice expletives. It’s enough to bring a smile to his face and rouse him to investigate.

“Freaking– frying pan,” she’s almost spitting, hopping on one leg. When she sees that he’s emerged she sets her other foot down, turning a little bit red. “Sorry if that was too loud. I thought you’d be in seriously deep sleep by now.”

“I did tell you I’d come running,” he points out, stretching. She looks away and he’s disappointed that her cheeks were already flushed. “It sounded like an emergency.”

“Not exactly. I just left the pan in an inconvenient spot last night.”

“Like the middle of the floor?”

“Shut up. How do you feel about cinnamon rolls?”

“Um, I have generally positive feelings toward them,” Bellamy says, and she brightens.

“Great. You call pest control and work, and I’ll get started on that. Coffee’s on the counter if you want some.”

“You don’t have to host me, you know. I’ve already imposed enough,” he points out, but he follows her into the kitchen which indeed smells like freshly-brewed coffee. If she’s offering him to stay, he’s not dumb enough to turn her down.

“The alternative is eating cinnamon rolls by myself, which feels a little bit sad.”

“But at least there’s a built-in comfort to it,” he says, dialing work and shushing her when she starts in with a comeback. She rolls her eyes and it feels weirdly normal. Like he could do this a million more mornings and it would feel the same.

“They can’t get here until later this afternoon,” he groans, dropping his head to her counter. It’s nearly noon, so their estimated arrival time isn’t that far off, but he still feels like he needs some serious rest.

“So hang out here,” Clarke says, studiously looking not at him.

“What would I do?” He wonders, and she snorts.

“Have a cinnamon roll. Read or watch tv or take a nap. Have you never taken a mental health day? It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“No, but at some point you’re going to realize I’m overstaying my welcome, and then it’s going to get awkward.”

“You’re not such bad company,” she says, spreading the icing on the first roll and passing it to him. His fingers brush hers. With the counter between them it somehow feels like last night, like lying in separate rooms and sharing secrets in the dark, like hearing each other through a floor or a ceiling, like almost touching until the blanket separates them. He’s tired of that gap, wishes he knew how to close it.

“You’re not so bad, yourself.”

She comes around the counter and pulls out the stool next to his, and he can almost feel the bare skin of her knee brushing against his leg, though really against the fabric of his sweatpants. Just one more layer between them, just one more kind of separation. He tries not to think about how she probably tastes like cinnamon and sugar and coffee, about how soft her skin is or how he’d liked her laugh.

They chat as they eat, and then she gets out her paints and starts in on a fresh stretch of wall and chats some more as she works. It’s just as easy to talk to her in the light of day as it was in the dark, and Bellamy still can’t figure out how exactly to turn this into what he wants it to be. When pest control calls to say they’re on their way, Clarke walks him to the door.

He knows this is it: this is the moment he says something, or the moment he chickens out and resigns himself to coming up with a lame excuse to text her. Finding such an excuse wouldn’t be difficult; he did promise her science cat memes, after all. Still, he feels like this is it so he pauses in the doorway and turns back. She’s standing right behind him, close and smelling vaguely of paint, and his courage almost fails him.

“We should do this again sometime,” he says, for lack of having come up with anything better.

“Do what?” She asks, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Keep each other up all night?”

He sputters, about to backtrack, but then she pulls him toward her with a hand fisted in his shirt, just enough to finally, finally close the distance between them, and kisses him, firm and sure. After a stunned moment, he kisses her back, unable to keep the disbelieving smile from his face. He grins even harder when she says low, against his lips, “But what would we _do_ for so long?”

“I’ve got one or two ideas,” he replies, and her laugh is light and airy. She drags him back down for another quick kiss and then pushes him away, still half laughing.

“Go deal with your bird situation. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

He doesn’t want to leave, but he should probably put on real clothes before the pest control guy comes, so he gives her one last kiss.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

* * *

When he lets himself into the house, Clarke is asleep on the couch, just as he expected. He locks the door behind him and flips all the deadbolts, toeing off his shoes so he won’t wake her as he crosses to where she’s sleeping.

They’ve been seeing each other for a few months and he thinks it’s going really well. He's mostly used to it by now, used to how he gets to touch her whenever he wants, used to getting rid of the space between them. But it also means he’s used to the way she falls asleep with her computer still open in her lap, the way she needs something to zone out to so that her mind can completely let go, like she evidently did tonight.

He closes and moves her laptop first before sliding his arms under her knees and behind her shoulders and starting to carry her back to her room.

“What the–” She gasps, flailing so much and startling him so badly that she knocks them both back onto the sofa. “Dammit, Bellamy.”

“Excuse me for trying to move you,” he teases, stroking her hair as she leans into him and takes deep breaths to calm herself. “What was I thinking, looking out for your aching back like that? I can’t believe I’d be so selfish, wanting to share a bed with my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, how dare you?” She asks, but he can hear the fondness in her voice. “At some point, my mind is going to stop jumping immediately to ‘serial killer’ when I realize I’m not alone.”

“You’re just going to have to get used to having me around,” he shrugs, kissing her temple. He feels her smile against his neck and snuggle closer in his arms.

“Sounds good to me.”


End file.
